Now that everyone knew who the mysterious stranger truly was — Drek’Thar confessed that he had known all along, and indeed had sent Wise-ear to find Doomhammer for just this confrontational purpose — the Frostwolves were able to treat their honored guest with the respect due him. They brought out several hares they had planned on drying for later use, dressed them with precious oils and herbs, and began to roast them over the fire. More herbs were added to the flame, and their pungent, sweet scents rose with the smoke. It was almost intoxicating. Drums and pipes were brought out, and soon the sounds of music and singing rose up to entwine with the smoke, sending a message of honoring and joy to the spirit worlds.
Thrall was tongue-tied at first, but Doomhammer coaxed his story out of him by alternately listening closely and asking probing questions. When Thrall was done, he did not speak at once.
“This Blackmoore,” he said. “He sounds like Gul’dan. One who does not have the best interests of his people in his heart, but only his own profit and pleasure.”
Thrall nodded. “I was not the only one to experience his cruelty and unpredictability. I am certain that he hates orcs, but he has little love for his own people either.”
“And this Taretha, and Sergeant . . . I did not know humans were capable of such things as kindness and honor.”
“I would not have known of honor and mercy had it not been for Sergeant,” said Thrall. Amusement rippled through him. “Nor would I have known that first maneuver I used on you. It has won me the battle many times.”
Doomhammer chuckled with him, then sobered. “It has been my experience that the males hate our people, and the females and children fear us. Yet this girl-child, of her own will, befriended you.”
“She has a great heart,” Thrall said. “I can give her no higher compliment than to say that I would be proud to admit her into my clan. She has an orc’s spirit, tempered by compassion.”
Doomhammer was silent again for a time. Finally, he said, “I have kept to myself these many years, since the final, ignominious defeat. I know what they say about me. I am a hermit, a coward, afraid to show my face. Do you know why I have scorned the company of others until this night, Thrall?”
Thrall silently shook his head.
“Because I needed to be by myself, to analyze what had happened. To think. To remind myself who I was, who we were as a people. From time to time, I would do as I have done this night. I would venture forth to the campfires, accept their hospitality, listen to their experiences, and learn.” He paused. “I know the insides of human prisons, as you do. I was captured and kept as an oddity by King Terenas of Lordaeron for a time. I escaped from his palace, as you escaped from Durnholde. I was even in an encampment. I know what it is like to be that broken, that despairing. I almost became one of them.”
He had been staring into the fire as he spoke. Now he turned to look at Thrall. Though his gray eyes were clear and devoid of the evil flame that burned in Hellscream’s eyes, by a trick of the firelight, his eyes now seemed to gleam as red as Grom’s.
“But I did not. I escaped, just as you did. I found it easy, just as you did. And yet it remains difficult for those huddled in the mud in those encampments. We can only do so much from the outside. If a pig loves her stall, the open door means nothing. So it is with those in the camps. They must want to walk through the door when we open it for them.”
Thrall was beginning to see what Doomhammer was trying to say. “Tearing down the walls alone will not ensure our people’s freedom,” he said.
Doomhammer nodded. “We must remind them of the way of the shaman. They must rid their contaminated spirits of the poison of the demon-whispered words, and instead embrace their true natures of the warrior and the spirit. You have won the admiration of the Warsong clan, and their fierce leader, Thrall. Now you have the Frostwolves, the most independent and proud clan I have ever known, ready to follow you into battle. If there is any orc living that can teach our broken kindred to remember who they are, it is you.”
Thrall thought of the encampment, of its dreary, deadly sloth. He also thought of how narrowly he had escaped Blackmoore’s men.
“Though I despise the place, I will willingly return, if I can hope to reawaken my people,” Thrall said. “But you must know that my capture is something that Blackmoore deeply desires. Twice, I have only narrowly escaped him. I had hoped to lead a charge against him, but — ”
“But that will fail, without troops,” Doomhammer said. “I know these things, Thrall. Though I have been a lone wanderer, I have not been inattentive to what has been happening in the land. Do not worry. We will lay false trails for Blackmoore and his men to follow.”
“The commanders of the camps know to look for me,” said Thrall.
“They will be looking for large, powerful, spirited, intelligent Thrall,” countered Doomhammer. “Another defeated, muddied, broken orc will be overlooked. Can you hide that stubborn pride, my friend? Can you bury it and pretend that you have no spirit, no will of your own?”
“It will be difficult,” Thrall admitted, “but I will do it, if it will help my people.”
“Spoken like the true son of Durotan,” said Doomhammer, his voice oddly thick.
Thrall hesitated, but pressed on. He had to know as much as he could. “Drek’Thar tells me that Durotan and Draka left to seek you, to convince you that Gul’dan was evil and using the orcs only to further his own struggle for power. The cloth in which I was wrapped told Drek’Thar that they had died violently, and I know that I was alone with the bodies of two orcs and a white wolf when Blackmoore found me. Please . . . can you tell me . . . did my father find you?”
“He did,” Doomhammer said heavily. “And it is my greatest shame and sorrow that I did not keep them closer. I thought it for the good of both my warriors and Durotan as well. They came, bringing you, young Thrall, and told me of Gul’dan’s treachery. I believed them. I knew of a place where they would be safe, or so I thought. I later learned that several of my own warriors were Gul’dan’s spies. Though I do not know for certain, I am convinced that the guard I entrusted to lead Durotan to safety summoned assassins to kill them instead.” Doomhammer sighed deeply, and for a moment it seemed to Thrall as if the weight of the world was piled atop those broad, powerful shoulders.
“Durotan was my friend. I would gladly have given my life for him and his family. Yet I unwittingly caused their deaths. I can only hope to atone for that by doing everything I can for the child he left behind. You come from a proud and noble line, Thrall, despite the name which you have chosen to keep. Let us honor that line together.”
A few weeks later, in the full bloom of spring, Thrall found it ease itself to lumber into a village, roar at the farmers, and let himself be captured. Once the trap-net had closed about him, he subsided, whimpering, to make his captors believe that they had crushed his spirit.
Even when he was set free in the encampment, he was careful not to give himself away. But once the guards had ceased regarding him as a novelty, Thrall began to speak softly to those who would listen. He had singled out the few who still seemed to have spirit. In the darkness, with the human guards nodding at their posts, Thrall told these orcs of their origins. He spoke of the powers of the shamans, of his own skills. More than once, a skeptic demanded proof. Thrall did not make the earth shake, or call the thunder and lightning. Instead, he picked up a handful of mud, and sought what was left of life within it. Before the astonished eyes of the captives, he caused the brown earth to sprout forth grasses and even flowers.
“Even what appears dead and ugly has power and beauty,” Thrall told the awestruck watchers. They turned to him, and his heart leaped within him as he saw the faintest glimmerings of hope in their expressions.
While Thrall subjected himself to voluntary imprisonment in order to inspire the beaten, imprisoned orcs in the camps, the Frostwolf clan and the Warsong clan had joined forces under Doomhammer. They watched the camp which Thrall was in, and waited for
his signal.
It took longer than Thrall had hoped to rouse the downtrodden orcs to even think of rebellion, but eventually, he decided the time was right. In the small hours of the morning, when the light snoring of many of the guards could be heard in the dewy hush, Thrall knelt on the good, solid soil. He lifted his hands and asked the Spirits of Water and Fire to come to help him free his people.
They came.
A soft rain began falling. Suddenly the sky was split with three jagged lines of lightning. A pause, then the display was repeated. Angry thunder rolled after each one, almost shaking the earth. This was the agreed-upon signal. The orcs waited, frightened yet excited, clutching the makeshift weapons of stones and sticks and other things that could be readily found in the encampment. They waited for Thrall to tell them what to do.
A terrifying scream split the night more piercingly than the thunder, and Thrall’s heart soared. He would recognize that cry anywhere — it was Grom Hellscream. The sound startled the orcs, but Thrall cried over the din, “Those are our allies outside the walls! They have come to free us!”
The guards had been awakened by the thunderclaps. Now they scrambled to their posts as Hellscream’s cries faded, but they were too late. Thrall asked again for lightning, and it came.
A jagged bolt of it struck the main wall, where most of the guards were posted. Mixed in with that terrible sound were a clap of thunder and the screams of the guards. Thrall blinked in the sudden darkness, but there were tongues of flame still burning here and there, and he could see that the wall was completely breached.
Over that breach spilled a tide of lithe green bodies. They charged the guards and overwhelmed them with almost casual ease. The orcs gaped at the sight.
“Can you feel it stirring?” Thrall yelled. “Can you feel your spirits longing to fight, to kill, to be free? Come, my brothers and sisters!” Without looking to see if they followed, Thrall charged toward the opening.
He heard their tentative voices behind him, growing in volume with each step they took toward liberation. Suddenly Thrall grunted in pain as something impaled his arm. A black-fletched arrow had sunk almost the entire way through it. He ignored the pain; time enough to tend to it when all were free.
There was fighting all around him, the sounds of steel striking sword and ax biting flesh. Some of the guards, the more intelligent ones, had realized what was happening and were rushing to block the exit with their own bodies. Thrall spared a moment of pity for the futility of their deaths, then charged.
He snatched up a weapon from a fallen comrade and beat back the inexperienced guard easily. “Go, go!” he cried, waving with his left hand. The imprisoned orcs first froze in a tight group, then one of them yelled and charged forward. The rest followed. Thrall lifted his weapon, brought it down, and the guard fell writhing into the bloody mud.
Gasping from exertion, Thrall looked around. All he could see now were the Warsong and Frostwolf clans engaged in combat. There were no more prisoners.
“Retreat!” he cried, and made for the pile of still-hot rocks that had once been imprisoning walls and the sweet darkness of the night. His clansmen followed. There were one or two guards who gave chase, but the orcs were faster and soon outdistanced them.
The agreed-upon meeting place was an ancient pile of standing stones. The night was dark, but orcish eyes did not need the moons’ illumination to see. By the time Thrall reached the site, dozens of orcs were huddled by the eight towering stones.
“Success!” cried a voice at Thrall’s right. He turned to see Doomhammer, his black plate armor shiny with what could only be spilled human blood. “Success! You are free, my brethren. You are free!”
And the cry that swelled up into the moonless night filled Thrall’s heart with joy.
“If you bear the news I think you do, then I am inclined to separate your pretty head from your shoulders,” Blackmoore growled at the hapless messenger who wore a baldric that marked him as a rider from one of the internment camps.
The messenger looked slightly ill. “Perhaps, then, I ought not speak,” he replied.
There was a bottle to Blackmoore’s right that seemed to keep calling to him. He ignored its song, though his palms were sweaty.
“Let me guess. There has been another uprising at one of the encampments. All of the orcs have escaped. No one knows where they are.”
“Lord Blackmoore,” stammered the young messenger, “will you still cut my head off if I confirm your words?”
Anger exploded through Blackmoore so sharply it was almost a physical pain. Hard on that passionate emotion was a profound sense of black despair. What was going on? How could those cattle, those sheep in orc guise, rally themselves sufficiently to overthrow their captors? Who were these orcs who had come out of nowhere, armed to the teeth and as full of hatred and fury as they had been two decades past? There were rumors that Doomhammer, curse his rotten soul, had come out of hiding and was leading these incursions. One guard had sworn that he had seen the black plate that bastard was famous for wearing.
“You may keep your head,” said Blackmoore, acutely aware of the bottle that was within arm’s reach. “But only that you may carry a message back to your superiors.”
“Sir,” said the messenger miserably, “there’s more.”
Blackmoore peered up at him with bloodshot eyes. “How much more can there possibly be?”
“This time, the instigator was positively identified. It was —”
“Doomhammer, yes, I’ve heard the rumors.”
“No, my lord.” The messenger swallowed. Blackmoore could actually see sweat popping out on the youth’s brow. “The leader of these rebellions is . . . is Thrall, my lord.”
Blackmoore felt the blood drain from his face. “You’re a damned liar, my man,” he said, softly. “Or at least you’d better tell me you are.”
“Nay, my lord, though I would it were not so. My master said he fought him in hand-to-hand combat, and remembered Thrall from the gladiator battles.”
“I’ll have your master’s tongue for telling such untruths!” bellowed Blackmoore.
“Alas, sir, you’ll have to dig six feet to get his tongue,” said the messenger. “He died only an hour after the battle.”
Overcome with this new information, Blackmoore sank back in his chair and tried to compose his thoughts. A quick drink would help, but he knew that he was drinking too much in front of people. He was starting to hear the whispers: drunken fool . . . who’s in command here now. . . .
No. He licked his lips. I’m Aedelas Blackmoore, Lord of Durnholde, master of the encampments . . . I trained that green-skinned, black-blooded freak, I ought to be able to out-think him . . . by the Light, just one drink to steady these hands. . . .
A strange feeling of pride stole through him. He’d been right about Thrall’s potential all along. He knew he’d been something special, something more than just an ordinary orc. If only Thrall hadn’t spurned the chances Blackmoore had given him! They could be leading the charge against the Alliance even now, with Blackmoore riding at the head of a loyal gathering of orcs, obedient to his every command. Foolish, foolish Thrall. For the briefest of moments, Blackmoore’s thoughts drifted back toward that final beating he had given Thrall. Perhaps that had been a bit much.
But he would not let himself feel guilt, not over his treatment of a disobedient slave. Thrall had thrown it all away to ally with these grunting, stinking, worthless thugs. Let him rot where he would fall.
His attention returned to the trembling messenger, and Blackmoore forced a smile. The man relaxed, smiling tentatively back. With an unsteady hand, Blackmoore reached for a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write a message. He powdered it to absorb the excess ink and gave it a few moments to dry. Then he carefully folded the missive into thirds, dripped hot wax on it, and set his seal.
Handing it to the messenger, he said, “Take this to your master. And have a care for that neck of yours, young sir.”
&nb
sp; Apparently having difficulty believing his good fortune, the messenger bowed deeply and hurried out, probably before Blackmoore could change his mind. Alone, Blackmoore lunged for the bottle, uncorked it, and took several long, deep pulls. As he lowered the bottle from his lips, it spilled on his black doublet. He wiped at the stains, disinterested. That’s what he had servants for.
“Tammis!” he yelled. At once the door opened and the servant stuck his head in.
“Yes, sir?”
“Go find Langston.” He smiled. “I’ve got a task for him to complete.”
SIXTEEN
Thrall had successfully managed to infiltrate and liberate three encampments. After the first, of course, security had been stepped up at the encampments. It was still pathetically lax, and the men who “captured” Thrall never seemed to expect him to stir up trouble.
But during the battle for the third, he had been recognized. The element of surprise had now vanished, and after talking with Hellscream and Doomhammer, it was decided that it would be too risky for Thrall to continue to pose as just another prisoner.
“It is your spirit, my friend, that has roused us. You cannot continue to put yourself into such jeopardy,” said Hellscream. His eyes blazed with what Thrall now knew to be demonic hellfire.
“I cannot sit safely behind our lines, letting everyone else face the danger while I shirk it,” Thrall replied.
“We are not suggesting that,” said Doomhammer. “But the tactic we have utilized has now become too dangerous.”
“Humans talk,” said Thrall, recalling all the rumors and stories he had heard while training. The human trainees had thought him too stupid to comprehend, and had spoken freely in his presence. The thought still rankled, but he had welcomed the knowledge. “The orcs in the prisons cannot help but overhear how the other camps have been freed. Even if they do not care to listen, they will know that something is afoot. Even if I am not there physically to tell them of the way of the shaman, we can hope that somehow our message has gotten through. Once the way is clear, let us hope they will find their own paths to freedom.”
Lord Of The Clans Page 15
